


get you alone

by princejake



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Episode Related, F/F, First Time, Frottage, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 12:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13411743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princejake/pseuds/princejake
Summary: Extended scene from 2.01 depicting Max and Anne's first time together. (Porn without plot, but porn WITH characterization, including a sfw cameo from Jack.)





	get you alone

The thing that Max still catches herself being surprised by is that Jack isn’t actually  _ stupid _ . Reckless? Certainly. Arrogant? Undoubtedly. Petty to the point of self sabotage?  _ Unbelievably _ , as the fallout from his rude dismissal of Mrs. Mapleton has demonstrated -- and really, Max was happy to fill the job vacancy, and she personally couldn’t care less if Jack never sails under the black again, but she’s now realizing just how bad it’s going to be for business if the so-called owner keeps limping in covered in his own blood and smelling like urine on a daily basis.

But ever so often, Max is reminded that her new business partner does in fact possess a rational brain and some measure of foresight, which is more than can be said for just about every pirate Max has ever met. Whether this will work for or against her in the long run, she’s yet to discern, though admittedly it makes the day to day management of this place far easier. Like now for example, when Max descends the staircase after making the rounds on the upper level of the inn to find that the Boyd brothers have commandeered one of the tables. Her first reaction is to go directly to the doorman with orders not to admit anyone from Captain Multon’s crew until she tells him otherwise. Her second destination is the bar, but when she gets there she finds Jack already at work containing the situation.

Jack meets her eyes briefly as she approaches, but keeps his focus on the water he’s pouring carefully into the narrow necks of several bottles of rum, hands below the bar and out of sight of any patrons who might object to the tampering. Max doesn’t face him directly, instead coming around to the side of the bar and leaning against it so she can keep an eye on the room. It’s not an especially busy night, and she doesn’t have to raise her voice over the low hum of music and conversation.

“Precautionary measures?” she inquires, as if she doesn’t already know the answer.

Jack raises his eyebrows at the table in question, where one of the Boyds has pulled Isabella into his lap and is whispering something in her ear that’s probably meant to be terribly witty. Max can hear her faked laughter from across the room.

“I’ve seen enough of what those  _ gentlemen _ get up to on the beach when they’re in high spirits, and I shudder to think of the damage they could cause in here.” He pauses to heft one of the bottles in his hand, takes a quick swig, and swishes it around his mouth once or twice before swallowing. “Damages which we of course would have to pay for, given that I sincerely doubt they’d have the money to compensate us even if we were to hold them accountable.”

Max allows a begrudging flicker of admiration. Noonan had never been one to address workplace problems in advance, though he was quite adept at complaining about the repercussions once it was too late to solve anything. She supposes Jack’s experience as quartermaster -- a role which, as she understands it, amounts to playing nanny to a horde of thieves and murderers -- must have been good preparation.

“Are you quite certain you weren’t meant to be a businessman rather than a pirate?” She makes the remark light-heartedly, intending it as a compliment -- Jack’s mood has been understandably sour given the events of the past few days, and Max knows he doesn’t  _ want _ to be running a brothel, but he  _ is _ , so he might as well make the most of it.

Jack does not appear to feel complimented. But he doesn’t take it as an insult either. Instead he seems almost wistful. “Perhaps in another life,” he mutters, eyes suddenly distant. His fingers dance absently over the rims of the bottles collected by his elbow. Max isn’t sure what she just stumbled upon, but she makes note of it and files it away mentally in case it ever becomes relevant.

A crash from across the room snaps Jack out of whatever reverie he was under. He clears his throat, finishes taste-testing the bottles, and must deem them sufficiently weakened as he passes them off to the barmaid along with instructions to  _ only _ serve the noisy party by the stairs from  _ these _ particular bottles, thank you kindly. Then he straightens up, brow creasing in realization. “You haven’t seen any of Captain Multon’s crew in here tonight, have you?”

“I’ve already informed the doorman to keep them out for the time being,” Max assures him.

“Ah. Well, it would appear you and I are on the same page. Excellent.” Jack flashes a tight-lipped grin at her. 

Max smiles in return and adjusts her posture so she can lean fully across the corner of the bar, her necklace dragging against the wood. She’s been waiting all day for the right moment to broach a certain subject, and this seems like the time for it. “In the interest of you and I remaining on the same page,” she says, “perhaps we could discuss what happens tomorrow morning.”

Jack groans dramatically. “I told you it won’t be a problem.”

“Forgive me if I do not share your confidence,” Max replies curtly. “Your partner seemed rather adamant about my leaving this place one way or another. And the fact that she has shut herself up in your room all night does not suggest her anger has abated.”

“Yes, well, the fact that she hasn’t already found a more direct outlet for that anger is a good sign, believe it or not.” Jack braces his hands against the top of the bar and lowers both his head and his voice. “What we  _ should _ discuss is whatever next move you’re plotting against our friend across the street.”

“And why are you so sure I’m plotting anything?”

Something comes out of Jack’s mouth that might have been a chuckle, if there were an ounce of humor behind it. “Because I’ve met you,” he states matter-of-factly.

Max fights not to roll her eyes. “Everything in Nassau survives by serving a purpose,” she explains. “Men want weapons, so there is a blacksmith. Men want to drink, so there is a tavern. Men want sex, so there is a brothel. If a need exists, it is only a matter of time before someone takes advantage of that need.”

“Your point being?”

“The need for information exists. And within these walls, where men are comfortable, where their guards are low and their tongues are loose -- information is easier to come by than anywhere else on this island.”

“So you’re, what, just providing a public service? How considerate of you.” Jack’s lip curls in a distinct way when he’s being sarcastic. It makes Max, who is not a violent person by any means, entertain thoughts about ripping it right off his face. “And of course this has nothing at all to do with undermining the woman who wronged you.”

Max’s face is calm and her gaze is steady as she responds. “If Eleanor were not Eleanor, and I were not me, someone else would step in to fill our roles. The reality is that this place is perfect for obtaining secrets, and if I am not the one selling them, it is only a matter of time before someone else sees an opportunity and exploits it. Would you prefer it to be one of the girls trading information without your knowledge?”

Jack narrows his eyes at her. “I’d prefer not to have anything going on under this roof without my knowledge, so if you’re going to insist on playing this role, at least keep me apprised of the details. If I can promise Anne you won’t be causing trouble behind our backs she’ll be less inclined to see you gone.”

_ She’ll be less inclined to see me gone once she accepts that she wants me in her bed _ , Max thinks. Out loud she says, “So promise her,” and smiles benignly.

Jack looks unconvinced, but he nods and moves to exit the bar, seemingly content to let the matter alone for now. Though he turns as he passes her, unable as always to resist having the last word. “Oh, and do try to keep your  _ services _ limited to a higher class of clientele in the future. Ned Lowe? Really?”

The smile on Max’s face doesn’t slip. “If you have better captains in mind, feel free to suggest them.” She maintains the expression until Jack is halfway across the room, then sighs. She’s loath to admit it, but Jack isn’t wrong. She’ll have to exercise more discretion with the customers moving forward.

And now she has Jack and Anne to worry about as well. If only she was just dealing with one or the other of them, Max thinks, she would be able to maneuver this easily. Jack may be wary of her motives, but he respects her intellect while Anne mistrusts it. On the other hand, Anne is clearly susceptible to Max’s charms, but as soon as Max takes advantage of that Jack would be obviously displeased, and threatened, and would probably decide the benefits of Max’s business acumen don’t outweigh the blow to his pride.

Operating as the third point of a triangle is turning out to be a precarious situation, but Max has seen herself through worse dangers than this before. One thing she knows for certain is that in no way does she trust Jack to deal with this, which is why once the inn has died down for the night and Jack has made his way upstairs, she only lingers a moment before silently following after him.

Apprehension churns more fiercely in her stomach with every step she ascends, and even once she’s reached the top she keeps a steadying grip on the faded wood railing. There’s no doubt in her mind that she’s interpreted Anne’s behavior correctly, but plenty of doubt as to what Anne’s reaction will be when confronted with the bare truth of it. It’s not as if she hasn’t faced similar situations before -- sadly, most women upon realizing such a truth will panic and rush to blame an outside party rather than accept their own nature. More than one woman has accused Max of corrupting them, of using her charm and her beauty and her enchanting voice to place them under some erotic spell, but in the past such accusations typically ended with screams and demands for Max to  _ get out of this house at once, you demonic hussy _ … once with a plate hurled in her direction, but never any injuries. Anne, on the other hand, may well forgo all that in favor of simply running her through.

Max feels a chill run through her despite the humid Caribbean air and finds herself rolling the pendant of her necklace anxiously between her fingers. Anne’s raised voice, audible through the door, is doing nothing to calm her nerves, and when Jack emerges a moment later with cautionary reassurances his words barely register. Max doesn’t care about anything he has to say right now. Jack may know Anne, but he has no knowledge of  _ this _ , this inarticulate ocean of longing that can exist between women and is both the sweetest blessing and the deepest curse Max has ever known.

She owes it to Anne to help her understand this. Max’s own future is at stake as well, but it’s the thought of Anne, hemmed in by frustration and self-denial and a terrible nameless ache, that gives her the ultimate spark of courage she needs to cross the threshold into Anne’s room.

The thought strikes her out of nowhere that she hasn’t actually been in this room since Jack and Anne started occupying it. The rug is different, and something else is amiss. After a breath she realizes what -- there are no fragrances in the air, none of the rosewater or incense favored by the girls. In an establishment designed to enhance pleasure, the conspicuous absence of these details makes Max feel as if she has stepped into another world, far away from the calculated but empty displays of sensuality elsewhere in the house.

Across the room, Anne sits rigidly and hunched over, an animal hunkered down in her den. Her hat lies on the bureau top next to her. Max has never seen her without it. She would have thought it would make Anne look incomplete, somehow, but it doesn’t. It just makes her look smaller. “Get the fuck out.”

Max closes the door behind her instead, considers her words carefully. “If we are  _ all _ going to make something of this place, perhaps it is in everyone’s best interest that you and I find a way past all of this.” She takes a few steps forward, testing. Measuring. “Past your anger towards me.”

“I’m not gonna warn you again.” Anne turns her head just enough so Max can see the pointed flash of her teeth as she growls the words.

“Your anger, it is understandable,” Max continues evenly, as if Anne had never spoken. “You killed your own crew to free me, you suffered indignity in my defense. Perhaps that is enough to warrant your feelings.” She pauses, making sure that the next words out of her mouth carry their full weight. “But perhaps there is something else underlying it. Something hiding in a place not even you can see.”

She draws closer to Anne, until she’s only an arm’s length away. Words can only do so much. She knows that it will take something further, something physical, to make Anne realize. Her nerves are jumping beneath her skin, survival instincts sensing the danger that radiates off Anne like heat from a fire, warning her not to touch. Max pushes them aside. “Perhaps... we would do well to... bring it into the light.”

Tentatively, tremulously, she extends her hand. She is so close now, and Anne has still not so much as turned her head to look at her. If she can just break the surface, if she can just make Anne  _ feel _ the truth of what is happening here… her fingers settle on Anne’s shoulder, just barely.

In the space of an instant, Anne leaps from her seat, wrenches Max’s head back by her hair, and brings her knife to her throat. “FUCK you think you’re doing?!”

Max hopes that question is rhetorical, because she suddenly can’t think past the frantic battering of her heart against her ribs, the cool metal pressed to her skin, the blazing fury in Anne’s eyes, so unexpectedly close. She trembles and waits for the knife-edge to dig in that final inch and end her.

Seconds pass, each one as heavy as lead. The blade doesn’t move. Max watches the fire in Anne’s eyes fade, watches her face go still, watches her gaze drop to Max’s mouth. Helpless to try anything else, Max slowly tilts her face closer. Anne’s grip on her hair slackens enough to allow the movement, permitting Max to ever-so-gently brush her lips against Anne’s. The brief contact has Anne flinching back, but when Max dares to look in her eyes again the anger is gone completely. In its place is something barely visible in the flickering candlelight -- something tender and unsure. It reminds Max of the look Anne wore in the tent when she confessed regret for handing her over to those men, the look at the top of the stairs that night Anne delivered her safely out of that hell. It has Max’s heart racing for an entirely different reason now, as she leans in again to capture Anne’s lips fully this time, and this time Anne does not pull away.

Distantly, Max hears the knife clatter to the floor, but all her attention is focused on the woman kissing her -- and  _ God _ , it’s only been a few weeks but it feels like an age since Max last kissed like this, the awful events of the beach having done their utmost to block any memory of sweetness or genuine desire from her mind. Max refuses to let them. She lets herself melt wholly into this, remembering how good it feels to kiss someone not because she was paid or threatened, but because she  _ wants _ to. The kiss is soft at first, but Max soon feels Anne’s mouth open under hers and a rush of heat sweeps through her at the sensation. Still she keeps her ministrations shallow, gentle laps of her tongue that barely make contact, all too aware that Anne could be overwhelmed and revert back to violence at any moment. The first wall has been breached but she still has to tread cautiously here.

She doesn’t remember bringing her hands up to hold Anne’s arms, but she runs her fingers delicately up and down, tracing soothing circles through the fabric of Anne’s shirt. Anne’s one hand is still tangled loosely in Max’s hair, her other arm hanging at her side. She seems frozen from the neck down, as if she’s forgotten how to do anything other than kiss. Max is perfectly fine with that, but there’s so much more she’s eager to show her. She sucks Anne’s bottom lip into her mouth and teases it gently as her fingers drift down to take Anne’s free hand and guide it to her waist. When Anne clutches at her she presses in closer and sighs, a small pleased sound that is swallowed up between their mouths.

Anne shivers all over, either from the sound or from their proximity, and breaks the kiss. She doesn’t back away -- her lips are still parted, and they twitch as if they want to resume the activity they had just been engaged in. Max waits. She has been using her body to survive for a very long time, and she has learned the language of intimacy very well. She heeds it now. Anne’s eyes are squeezed shut like she can’t face this directly, but her hands are clutching like she also cannot bear to let it go. Her breath is coming in deep unsteady gasps. Pressed together as they are, Max can feel Anne’s chest rise and fall against her own, knows that the ribbing of her bodice is rubbing against Anne’s nipples through the thin fabric of her own shirt. She waits, and when Anne’s eyes finally flutter open, she smiles up at her, kitten-soft and reassuring. She needs Anne to see that this is all right, that no one is in danger here, that her own body already knows this is what it was meant to do.

Leaning forward, Max dares to skim her lips across Anne’s neck. She mouths her way down to the hollow of Anne’s throat, presses a lingering kiss there, pulls the skin between her teeth and nips it lightly before tilting her face back up. Her nose bumps against Anne’s chin, and when she meets Anne’s eyes again they are cloudy, the normally piercing blue now shadowed with a devastating hunger. Max licks her lips but doesn’t move. She knows before it happens that Anne will initiate the kiss this time, though she doesn’t anticipate the way Anne groans quietly into her mouth, or the hand at her waist sliding restlessly up over her ribs, around to her back, then lower again until it rests just over the curve of her ass.

Max feels herself throb at the touch, her body lighting up and remembering how it feels to  _ crave _ . She kisses Anne deeper, wet and passionate, then takes a tiny step backwards. She cups Anne’s elbows and tugs faintly, urging with hands and lips for her to follow, and is rewarded when Anne goes along with her, unwilling to break the kiss this time. They continue like this, Max inching back across the room and Anne chasing after her mouth, until Max’s legs hit the bed and she sinks down onto it gracefully, leaving Anne dazed and blinking down at her.

Knowing exactly how she looks right now, Max smiles again, slow and wicked and full of promise. She holds Anne’s gaze as she reaches up to undo her own bodice. This proves more challenging than anticipated -- the outfit is new, and finer that what she’s accustomed to, and her fingers are unpracticed at navigating such complicated lacing by touch alone. Even Eleanor never wore dresses like this, always preferred more rugged clothing that was simple and easy to move in, and it would thrill her how effortlessly Max could divest them both of their layers while simultaneously kissing her neck, or sneaking a hand between her legs, pulling back to see the hot gleam in her bright seaglass eyes before --

Max’s fingers falter and she quickly ducks her head and bites her lip, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. It’s been weeks, she thinks bitterly, berating herself for letting thoughts of Eleanor disarm her in this moment. She tugs a bit more viciously at her laces than necessary when suddenly she feels a feather-light touch beneath her chin. She looks back up at Anne and…

...forgets.

Both of them are motionless, the air between them thick and  _ alive _ somehow in a way it wasn’t just a moment ago, the pregnant sensation before a storm. Anne’s lovely face, unshadowed by the brim of her hat for once, is wrinkled in concern. Max sees the question in her eyes, and she forgets the game she’s been playing. She forgets thoughts of how to leverage this over Jack. She forgets her own precarious situation, her need to control this, her fears that the ground beneath her will shift at any second and leave her with nothing. She forgets that Eleanor is just across the street, a stone’s throw away, and is never going to touch her again. She forgets everything except an all-consuming urge to grab hold of the proof that someone cares for her, and cling to it as long as she is able.

Her fingers finally cooperate. The laces fall free. Max pulls her bodice off and in the same breath slides her arms out of her shift, letting the fabric pool around her waist where she sits on the bed and leaving her tits bare. Anne’s eyes drop to them immediately, but her hand is more hesitant to follow. Her fingers descend from where they had rested on the underside of Max’s jaw, trace the line of Max’s necklace as it dips down, but stop just around her collarbone.

Slowly but firmly, Max takes Anne’s hand in her own and guides it until it rests over her right breast. With her fingers still covering Anne’s she squeezes encouragingly. Anne’s ring digs into the soft flesh almost painfully before her whole body relaxes. Her shoulders sag, her breath escapes on a shaky exhale, and her thumb brushes loosely back and forth across Max’s nipple.

Max voices her approval in the form of a low and satisfied hum. She arches her back, pressing further into Anne’s hand, feeling her nipple harden under the attention. She reaches for the hem of Anne’s shirt where it hangs free of her trousers, intending to return the favor.

As quickly as she had pulled her knife earlier, Anne seizes Max’s wrists tight enough to bruise. “Don’t.” The single word falls brusquely from her lips. She’s tense again, and her hair has fallen in her face, her expression hard to make out.

“It’s all right,” Max says, because she’s not sure what else to say. She lets her arms go limp, trying to convey that she has no interest in forcing Anne to do this. Anne releases her, and Max braces her hands against the mattress. Is this the part, she wonders, where Anne’s panic returns and she flees? Max no longer fears that Anne will harm her, but neither does she want Anne to run.

She could persuade Anne to stay. She could recline back, angle herself invitingly, spread herself out and put on a show for Anne’s benefit.

She does none of this.

Anne wavers, hanging above her for a moment, but when she moves it is decisive. She bends to strip off her boots, and when she stands back upright her hands are already working at her belt. Max’s heart leaps in her chest. Her fingers itch to help, but she doesn’t want to risk spooking Anne again, so she just watches as the other woman hurriedly pushes her trousers down and kicks them aside. Max barely has time to admire the lean, pale stretch of Anne’s legs before Anne clambers onto the bed, gorgeously graceless, and straddles her.

Their mouths meet again, and it’s unclear who kisses whom this time, but the way they open to each other is equally warm and desperate. Max licks deeply into Anne’s mouth, pulls back to press Anne’s top lip hard between her own, opens again to graze her teeth against the same spot. Anne’s hands grow more and more restless, stroking Max’s face, skimming across her shoulders, down to cup her breasts, then lower still. She fists the fabric of Max’s skirts, right by the waistline, while her thumbs prod gently at the soft give of Max’s belly.

Carefully, Max lets her own hands settle on Anne’s hips, over her shirt. Anne sighs into her mouth at the touch and shifts against her in a way that feels encouraging. Her weight drops more fully into Max’s lap and Max arches up against it. She wants, oh, she  _ wants _ \-- she scrapes her nails lightly down across Anne’s thighs, and Anne makes a high thin sound in the back of her throat and bites Max’s lip.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Max whispers against the line of Anne’s teeth. She traces her knuckles against Anne’s inner thigh, moving gradually higher until the backs of her fingers brush the crease of Anne’s pelvis. She twists her wrist so that she can caress Anne with her thumb, just once over, just enough to feel the wetness already there for her.

Anne has stopped kissing. Her forehead is tilted against Max’s, warm breath ghosting over Max’s face in shuddering waves. Max can feel Anne’s hands shaking where they’re pressed into her stomach. She hushes her again, murmurs sweet nonsense in French as she brings her free hand up to soothe Anne’s trembling fingers. She takes her other hand from between Anne’s legs and lifts it to her own mouth. Her tongue licks the moisture from her thumb, then licks at Anne’s lips, coaxes them apart and shares the taste with her.

When Max pulls away again, the whimper that slips out of Anne’s mouth is almost enough to pull her right back, but there are other places on Anne’s body she’d very much like to be kissing. She lies back fully and shimmies out of her remaining garments, scooting further up the bed. She reaches out and Anne grasps her hand immediately, lets Max urge her forwards until her knees are on either side of Max’s head and Max is face to face with her target.

She leans up and noses at the dark curls, keeping an eye on Anne’s face as best as she can from her position while she inhales deeply. Anne’s jaw is slack and she appears to be holding her breath, if the stillness of her chest is any indication. When Max spreads her open with a thumb and licks her once, slowly and purposefully, bottom to top, her whole body twitches and she throws her head back. Max closes her eyes and concentrates fully on the task in front of her. She moves her tongue in lazy, lingering circles, not pushing in deep, savoring as she acquaints herself with the taste that’s leaking forth. It’s briny, strong but not bitter, and Max coats her tongue with it, collects every drop, sucks it down and makes Anne moan at the pull of Max’s mouth against her folds.

Max sucks harder just for a moment, then pulls off with a slick pop and moves up to tease Anne’s clit. She flicks it a few times, varying the rhythm, presses her tongue against it and slides it rapidly back and forth. Above her, Anne gasps and clutches the headboard, causing the bed to creak with the force of her grip. Max allows herself a tiny flash of smugness that she hasn’t lost her aptitude for this -- it’s been some time since she had the opportunity to learn another woman’s body anew, and she’s eager to explore, to discover what will make Anne come undone.

In this spirit of exploration, she descends again, parts her mouth and pushes her tongue inside. She holds it there for a beat, ripples it against Anne’s inner walls, then begins to lap steadily at her, an in-and-out motion that has Anne gasping again and jerking her hips down, once, before she stops herself. Max can feel Anne’s thighs shivering around her, and a delicious hot spike shoots through her at the notion of Anne fucking her face, but to voice that desire aloud would be far too blunt for this fragile thing that is just starting to take shape between them. Instead, she strokes a hand up Anne’s thigh to the curve of her hip. She withdraws her tongue and flattens it against Anne’s cunt, gazes up at her and waits patiently for Anne to look down. Once she does, Max curls just the tip of her tongue, uses her hand on Anne’s hip to guide her down and forwards, leading her.

Anne rocks against her mouth, tentatively, and Max validates her with a deep moan. The sound is muffled but Anne seems to get the message, as she begins to grind down harder. Max lets her head drop back onto the bed, in a state of bliss as Anne rides her mouth. With her hand still resting atop Anne’s leg she can feel the tightness of the muscles beneath smooth skin -- Anne’s limbs may be skinny but they’re strong, packed with sinew from years of fighting, and the thought of all that destructive force now concentrated on taking pleasure from her makes Max’s head spin a little. Or maybe that’s the lack of air. She draws measured breaths through her nose, thick with Anne’s scent, pulses her tongue in counterpoint to the movements of Anne’s hips, closes her eyes and lets sensation carry her. The intimate taste and smell of Anne, the harsh flex of her muscles contrasted with the plushness of her skin against Max’s lips, the soft choked off noises escaping her throat -- Max’s whole world in this moment is overwhelmed with  _ Anne Anne Anne _ and suddenly her own arousal is burning her alive. She reaches down with her free hand, between her own bare legs, plies herself with shaking fingers to take the edge off and groans with relief.

Anne echoes that groan, her rhythm faltering, and Max resumes the pace for her. She tilts her chin up to adjust her angle, straining her neck a bit but allowing her to bump her nose against Anne’s clit as her tongue slips inside of her once again. Anne shudders against her, pressing down so that Max’s breathing is cut off entirely for a few seconds, but Max just thinks fleetingly that there would be far worse ways to die than smothered between Anne Bonny’s thighs. She seals her lips over Anne’s labia and sucks a forceful kiss there before dragging her mouth upwards to repeat the action against Anne’s clit. When she begins to circle the bud with her tongue, Anne cries out, the loudest she’s been so far. Her body is quaking and Max realizes her climax is drawing near.

Exhilarated, Max doubles her efforts, replacing the pressure of her tongue with that of her thumb. She matches her strokes over Anne’s clit with her hand upon herself, sets an intense pace and feels Anne vibrate all around her in response. She dips her tongue down and wriggles it erratically, then pumps it quickly in and out, over and over. Anne goes rigid and Max stretches her jaw as much as she can, thrusts her tongue as deep as possible and leaves it there quivering, massages Anne’s clit insistently as Anne shakes and pants her way through her orgasm.

Ordinarily Max would keep going -- in her experience, women who have only ever been to bed with men are pitifully easy to dazzle if you simply bring them off twice in quick succession. But showing off is not her goal here, and from the way Anne’s body is still trembling as she slumps backwards, Max guesses she needs time to recover. She licks the taste of Anne from her own lips, continues to finger herself idly, and waits to see what will happen next.

Anne spends several long seconds getting her breathing under control. She uncurls her fingers from the headboard, swings one of her legs back over so that she’s kneeling next to Max on the bed. She does not look Max in the eye. Her hands tug the hem of her shirt back down so that she’s covered, and Max knows the flush on her cheeks is from exertion, but she seems almost embarrassed anyway.

Max is familiar with this part -- after the body has been sated and the mind is allowed to take over again, when the other party is confronted with what she just let happen and how much she enjoyed it, when her shame at enjoying it so outweighs her pleasure that she folds under the burden of it. Max is all too familiar with all of this, but she feels the bitter sting of disappointment nonetheless, remembering the tender concern Anne showed for her earlier. She had hoped, foolishly, that that tenderness would be strong enough to overpower any shame. Anne is so different from anyone Max has ever known and she hoped this might be different also. She supposes Anne is only human after all.

But… it’s been a prolonged moment, and Anne still hasn’t moved away. She seems frozen in place, though she still won’t make eye contact, and Max is confused. Then she realizes where Anne  _ is _ looking -- at Max’s hand, still working steadily between her own legs.

Max is buzzing all over, the hope that was doused only a moment ago now flaring again deep in her chest. She lifts her hand to her mouth, gratified when Anne’s gaze follows, licks deliberately over her first two fingers and reaches down again to slide those fingers inside her pussy. It’s hardly the first time she’s pleasured herself in front of another person, but never anyone she  _ wanted _ to have watching her, and she finds the sensation intoxicating. She squirms, sighs, arches her back as she hits a sensitive spot, knowing that Anne is drinking in the sight even though her own need has already been satisfied. Somehow the knowledge makes her giddy and mellow at the same time, makes her want to stay right here, unconcerned with finishing, just fucking herself on her fingers for as long as Anne cares to watch her.

She certainly does not expect Anne to abruptly stretch out beside her, reach across to hook one hand behind Max’s knee and pull it forcefully toward herself so that Max is turned onto her side. Max has an instant to process this new position before Anne slips her leg in between Max’s own and uses her grip to tug Max closer, until Max’s pussy is snug against Anne’s bare thigh.

“Oh -- oh  _ God _ , yes,” Max breathes, rolling her hips ecstatically, taking what she’s been offered. Her hands fly up to scrabble greedily at Anne’s back, fist into Anne’s shirt and hold on tight. Anne’s hand on the back of Max’s leg wanders slowly upwards, hesitant at first, but then Max feels a firm grip span the whole of her asscheek and she moans and bucks harder. The both of them pull at each other, closer together and then relaxing in time with Max’s thrusts, back and forth like the tide on the shoreline.

Max has her eyes squeezed shut. She’s not sure she could bear to look directly at Anne in this moment, and she’s more sure that Anne couldn’t bear it either. She leans in and blindly presses her lips to Anne’s cheek, her jaw, her neck. She rests her forehead against Anne’s shoulder and opens her eyes to look down at their bodies moving together. At this angle she can practically see straight down Anne’s shirt, can just barely make out the shadowy curves of Anne’s breasts. She aches to slide her hands up beneath Anne’s shirt and touch them, to draw them out and get her mouth on them, find out if they’re lean like the rest of her, or plump, or delicate, or firm, or even lopsided -- Max has yet to meet a pair of tits she wasn’t fond of -- but for whatever reason Anne already killed that notion in its cradle. Max contents herself with turning her head slightly to nose at the sliver of Anne’s collarbone that peeks out and press more kisses there, kisses that rapidly devolve into open-mouthed panting as the friction against her clit grows more and more intense.

She’s rubbing herself almost viciously against Anne’s thigh now, the motion made easy by the combined sweat of their bodies and the slickness Max’s pussy is smearing all over Anne’s skin. She can feel herself slipping in it and she grits her teeth and pulls harder with the grip she has on Anne’s shirt, forces them together as her hips jerk in frantic, tiny increments. Her pleasure is being coaxed forward, she can sense it, like a catch being reeled in on a fishing line, ever closer, closer, all she has to do is maintain the pressure now, closer, her whole body flexing in anticipation,  _ closer _ \--

Anne dips her head to lick a fast but solid stripe along the top of Max’s breast and the unexpected contact jolts Max over the edge. She muffles her high-pitched scream in Anne’s shoulder as her orgasm floods through her, her hips still grinding involuntarily to chase down every last bit of pleasure, spasming until she’s utterly spent.

When her senses return to her the first thing she does is to loosen her grip and smooth out the fabric that had bunched up beneath her desperate hands. She knows she should say something, but the more she searches for the right words the more futile it seems. Whatever just happened here was clearly more profound than either of them had expected and Max is at a loss for how to address it.

Still, for Anne’s sake, she should try. She was the one who initiated this, after all. And between the two of them there’s no doubt that Max is far better equipped to deal with emotional obstacles... any obstacles that can’t be solved through stabbing, really.

She pulls back reluctantly, just enough to bring Anne’s face into her line of vision. Anne’s eyes are nervous, darting between Max’s face and her breasts, guilt slowly rising in the blue depths of her irises as plain as day.

_ If you don’t say something right now she’s going to run _ , Max thinks, feeling the tension mounting. She tries to tell herself that this isn’t another game. The words don’t have to be crafted perfectly, they just have to be true.

She opens her mouth to speak and Anne wrenches herself away in that lightning-fast way of hers, leaving Max with her arms full of nothing but the night air, shockingly cool after the heat of their coupling.

“Get dressed and get out.” The order is swift but quiet, with none of the same venom behind it from earlier. Anne grabs a corner of the bedsheets and uses it to scrub vigorously at her inner thighs, wiping away both Max’s juices and her own.

Max sits up but makes no move to cover herself. “I think we should discuss this first,” she says gently.

“Little late for that, ain’t it?” Anne mutters, pulling her trousers on. Max notes her clumsy attempts to fasten her belt, her movements not quite controlled enough to thread the leather through the buckle. “It’s done already. Fuck’s there to talk about? Move on.”

“Anne, you cannot pretend this did not happen.”

“I ain’t pretending nothing!” Anne’s head shoots up defiantly, but her voice wavers. She looks so young suddenly, standing there barefoot and stubborn. When Max does nothing but stare unflinchingly back at her, her head drops again, hair shrouding her face like a veil. “So maybe you were right, so what? You wanna gloat about it? Wanna laugh at me?”

“No,” Max says emphatically, leaning forward. “I want…”  _ To help you. To hold you. To be there for you. _

She cannot make herself say it. She thinks instinctively of herself, on her knees, pouring her heart out to Eleanor, and all the disaster that followed. She stays silent.

Anne sighs, a heavy sound that seems to echo through the room. “Just go,” she says hollowly.

Max draws in a deep breath, composing herself. “Anne --”

Boots abandoned and belt still flapping freely, Anne stomps over to the round table in the center of the room, snatches the bottle of rum sitting there, and disappears through the doors to the outside walkway. And just like that, Max is alone with the dimming candlelight and the creeping sense that this has slipped into something beyond her control.

With no reason to linger, she dresses quickly. The last thing she needs is for Jack to walk in and find her disheveled in his bed after she just fucked his partner -- and there’s something else she’ll have to confront sooner rather than later, Max reminds herself distastefully. Dealing with the self-pitying convulsions of Jack’s wounded manhood once he learns about this is not something she is looking forward to. She exits through the balcony doors as well and makes her way back to her own room.

However confused Anne may feel right now, it’s preferable to her being enraged. And after what just happened between them, it’s practically a foregone conclusion that Anne will be back for more. She may try to distance herself from it, but Max knows from personal experience that with an urge like this, you either act upon it or else you imprison yourself through denying it. And Anne is far too wild and free a creature to be held by any prison, least of all one of her own making. Max is certain she’ll be able to guide Anne through this conflict emerging within her. What is less certain, what Max fears losing control over most of all, is her own level of investment in Anne’s well-being.

Max had resolved, long before any of this with Anne began, to never again put her security in the hands of another. She will do what she can to help Anne. She will not compromise her own future to do so. She’s come too far for that.

**Author's Note:**

> If I'm being completely honest, I think Anne was probably less reciprocal during their first time than I wrote her here, but this is wish fulfillment not canon so I took moderate liberties.
> 
> First foray into writing Black Sails fic, also first foray into writing smut, ego-boosting comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading!


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